Cellar
by DebbieB
Summary: Tracy and Ned are trapped in the wine cellar together. Part of the TQ Ficathon's Tracy Gets Trapped challenge.


The only word she heard before the door slammed shut behind her was "Don't!" Tracy Quartermaine hesitated, tilting her head as she looked down the cellar stairs to find the source of the word. In this case, it was her son Ned Ashton, who was rushing towards the stairwell with a frantic look on his handsome face.

"Don't what, darling?" she asked as she began to descend the stairs. Her dinner appointment with the Holloways was in ninety minutes, and she had just enough time to grab a bottle of the 78 port they liked before she had to leave for the city. "Ned, you look like you've seen a ghost." She swept by him, her black and red over-jacket fluttering behind her as she headed for the correct wine rack.

"You shut the door!" he said in an accusing tone, following her towards the port. "I can't believe you, Mother. You _shut_ the door!"

Tracy pivoted on her heel to stare at him. "Ned, dear, you're babbling. " She didn't remember her son being insane. Maybe Daddy had sent a memo about it to the family email list. She'd have to check her "delete" box.

"You _shut the door_!" He kept insisting on repeating that same line, as if it had some sort of actual significance.

"Of course I shut the door, dear. This is a wine cellar. It needs to stay cool, or the wine goes bad. Now, I need to get this bottle of port and get on the road. Melinda Holloway does not like to be kept waiting, and her husband will be drunk off his gourd if I'm ten minutes late." She grabbed the port, gracing him with a smile as he leaned against the wine rack, sulking. "Oh, Ned," she sighed in a frustrated tone. "Okay, I'm sorry I closed the door. Happy?"

He just shook his head, arms folded across his chest. "Ecstatic," he droned and watched as she ascended the stairs. "Have fun with the Holloways."

"Not likely," Tracy admitted as she paused at the top of the stairs. "She's a social-climbing moron and he's a grabby lush, but they do tend to donate lots and lots of money to the hospital. And since Carly Whatever Her Last Name Is doesn't seem to care one whit about the Charitable Foundation chairmanship she stole from under my nose, it's up to me to butter them up before they make their annual donation. Wish me luck," she added as she turned to leave.

"Good luck, Mother," Ned said without inflection.

Tracy turned the door handle and grunted when it didn't open. She tried again, and it didn't budge. "Ned, there's something wrong with the door."

"Really?" he said, his voice high and innocent. "You don't say."

She pulled hard, exerting herself with the effort of trying to open the cellar door. "No, really, Ned, I think it's stuck. Come help me."

"Uh, nope."

She whirled around to glare at him. "Ned Ashton, you come up here and help me immediately," she demanded in her most intimidating voice. "Do _not_ stand there and sulk just because I…oh…"

"Yeah." He smiled tightly at his mother, a little superior expression on his face. "You did, didn't you?"

"Why didn't you tell--"

"I _told_ you not to shut it!"

"No, you didn't," Tracy grunted, putting her entire weight into the act of pulling on the door. "You said, 'don't.' Not 'Don't shut the door' or 'Don't get us trapped in the wine cellar, Mother,' or even 'Don't cry for me, Argentina!'" She grunted as the handle slipped from her hands, and grabbed frantically for balance as she nearly tumbled down the stairs. To his credit, Ned lurched forward as if to catch her. But she managed to stay on her feet, and even to get a small low kick at the stubborn door before she turned to descend the stairs again. "Just 'don't.' How was I supposed to know what you meant?"

Ned sighed glumly, taking her hand as she got to the bottom few steps. He led her to a wooden crate where he'd been sitting before she came in. "Sorry. I've been here almost an hour, and I just…" He sank onto the crate, patting the section next to him for her to join him.

"Why don't you use the intercom?" Tracy said, cradling the port in her lap as she sat next to her son.

"There's some sort of short in the wiring. I can hear them, but obviously they couldn't hear me. I even took it apart and fiddled with the wires--"

"No luck?" She didn't need his answer to know his answer. If it had worked, Ned would have already been out of here. "What about banging on the door?" He rolled his eyes, and she nodded. "No luck there, either."

"Was there anybody in the house when you came down?" he asked.

"How should I know? I had things to do."

"And of course, you couldn't be bothered to pay attention," he grumbled.

Tracy rolled her eyes, toying with the foil-covered cork on the bottle she held. The room was already starting to feel cold down there, and she thought with regret on the light jacket she'd tossed over the back of the sofa before coming down to get the port. "Forgive me for being the self-involved mother you've always known and loathed," she grumbled in return. "I think Alice was here. And maybe Luke's kid."

"Lulu?"

"Yeah, her. She was muttering something about a car and sales." Tracy sighed heavily. "I think she's about to steal another one of Daddy's cars," she added nonchalantly.

"You really ought to do something about that," Ned said, nodding absently.

Tracy shrugged with a "whatchagonnado attitude." "It gives Daddy something to scream about besides me, so why bother?"

"You've got a point there." He yawned, stretching as he did so. "You don't happen to have a salami sandwich on you, by any chance?"

Tracy stared at him, eyes narrowed, before answering. "Do I _look_ like I'm packing deli meats, son?"

"No, just wishful thinking. I skipped lunch," he added.

"You really shouldn't do that—"

"Yes, Mother."

"It throws off your entire afternoon."

"I know, Mother." He stood and began to pace. Ned Ashton was a tall man in his very early forties, much taller than his mother, with soft brown hair and a handsome boyish face. He wore an eclectic combination of corporate and cool, with an expensive blazer complementing the strategically-faded jeans and Rush 2112 concert tee-shirt he wore underneath. He'd obviously spent the day at L&B, the music production company he ran with his ex-wife, and not in the cloistered corridors of ELQ.

Tracy watched her son pacing, wondering where in hell he'd come from. She was as conservative as they came, and Larry—well, Ned's father was not exactly the picture of cool. How they'd ever given life to this rocker-cum-executive was beyond her, but she had to admit (at least to herself) that he wore it well. "New shoes," she commented, noting the fine Italian leather shoes that complemented his outfit so well.

"Uh, yeah. Picked them up last week, I think. Do you think you could shimmy up that dumbwaiter?" He turned to see his mother glaring at him, and shook his head. "Okay, not going there. What about—"

"My cell phone?" she asked, pulling out her purse. But they both knew that the protection offered by the cellar from the world around also tended to devastate cell signals, and she didn't even have to look to see that hers was not going to work. "Uh, not going there, either, I suppose."

"Man," Ned kicked the crate, very possibly destroying the finish of his expensive shoes.

Tracy practically jumped out of her skin. "Hello? Sitting right here."

"Damn," her son muttered, pacing and mumbling to himself.

"Oh, come on, Ned. It's not that bad. I mean, there are worse things in the world than spending a little quality time with your mother." She chose to ignore his 'Oh, really' look and just continue on. "With the way this family drinks, we've got a fighting chance that somebody'll be down here in twenty minutes." She smirked to herself. "I mean, it's the wine cellar, not the family chapel."

"Damn," Ned said again, softly, ignoring her completely as he paced back and forth. "Damn, damn, damn."

Tracy sighed heavily, folding her arms across her chest as she watched him pace. "So are you trying to dig a trench with your Forzieri's, or are you upset about something?"

"I have an engagement," he said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, my god," she said, shaking her head as she stood to cross over to where he was pacing. "Puh-lease do not tell me you're in a snit over some woman! Have I taught you _nothing_?"

"She's not just any woman, Mother, not that it would matter to you." He frowned as she threw up her hands in confusion.

"What?" she said, following him as he continued to pace. "What?"

"Oh, come _on_!"

She grabbed his shoulder and forced him to stop for a moment, her eyes rolling as she looked up into his face. "Oh, come on yourself. I break up one or all of your marriages, and you get this _attitude_…."

"For crying out loud, Tracy, if we're going to be stuck here, can you kindly refrain from getting personal?" He shook off her hand and sank back down onto the crate, his face in his open hands.

Tracy hesitated, unsure how exactly to take this. Tracing backwards a few months, she tried to think of any despicable act she'd committed that would warrant such open hostility from him. Granted, she was used to a certain level of ambient disgust from her elder son, but this was much even for him. When her search drew up a blank, she calmed herself and sat quietly next to him. "She must be one hell of a girl," she said gently.

Ned looked up at her with a half-smile. "You have no idea," he said.

"I don't suppose I'm going to get to meet this amazing creature, am I?"

He raised a single eyebrow. "Do I need to dignify that with an answer?"

She shrugged, happy at least that he'd stopped pacing and seemed to have foregone the outright venom. "Well, you're Ned Ashton. A bottle of expensive champagne, a silky negligee, and you're back in her good graces in no time."

Ned shot her an odd glance, then shook his head as if giving up on a long-fought, but ultimately hopeless battle. "It's not that kind of relationship, Tracy."

"Oh, so it's 'Tracy' now, is it?" She reached out to brush his bangs from his forehead. It was one of those rare genetic mother things she couldn't help doing—brought on by too many hormones during pregnancy, no doubt. "If I promise to hold off six months on destroying this new relationship of yours, do you think you could muster a 'mother' for the duration of our stay in this charming cellar?"

He laughed in spite of himself. "Sorry," he said, shooing her hands away as she continued to fiddle with his hair. "I just—I promised I would be there, and now she's going to be disappointed."

"I'm sorry," she said. And it was true. Despite what anybody thought of her, Tracy really didn't like seeing her boys unhappy. And Ned looked so forlorn, so utterly defeated, that she felt compelled to cheer him up. "Maybe…maybe we should try the door again. Is it the lock? Or is the handle jammed?"

"I don't know what's wrong with it, Mother, except that it is between me and getting where I need to be tonight."

"Well, I'm no doe-eyed charmer, but I'll try to be good company." Tracy kissed Ned's forehead, smiling as he leaned his forehead against hers for a long moment before pulling away. "What were you coming for, anyway?"

"The '93 Rheinriesling," he said.

Tracy raised her eyebrows. "Not a particularly romantic choice," she commented, but backed off when he frowned. "But high quality, nonetheless." She paused for a moment, then rose to her feet in one fluid motion. "Speaking of which," she said and crossed to the far side of the cellar. After a long absence, she returned carrying a dusty black bottle with the familiar gold shield across the front. "I _knew_ I still had a couple of bottles hidden back there." She handed it to Ned to hold as she hurried to the tasting station to find some glasses. "Your grandfather bought a whole case of it when he found out I was carrying the future Lord Ashton."

"Dom Perignon?" Ned grinned, unable to imagine Edward Quartermaine plopping down a small fortune on anything to do with him.

"Oh, yeah, he was beside himself. A Quartermaine heir _and_ a peerage in the family." She sat next to him, taking the bottle from her son and peeling the foil away from the cork with practiced ease. "Of course, that was before A.J. was born. After that miraculous event—"

"I became just—"

"Tracy's kid," she finished for him as she opened the wire restraints and eased the cork out of the bottle. She did it properly, with no showy _pop_ the way ameteurs and tourists did it. "Yeah, sorry about that. Should have warned you about that little genetic flaw when you were still in the womb."

"Yeah, well look what happened to the Heir Apparent," he said, taking the glass she offered gratefully. "Here's to the Also Rans. We may not win the cup, but we're still around when the smoke clears."

"You're not an also-ran," Tracy said. "You're as much as Quartermaine as any one of us."

"I'm as much an Ashton as my father, too." He had to chuckle at his mother's frown. "Come on, you had to at least _like_ the guy at some point."

Tracy took a long sip of her champagne before answering. "I liked him for about ten minutes, after the wedding. That's as long as it took for me to outgrow him, and then—well, let's just say that you, sir, are the best thing about that little foray into matrimony." After another sip, she added, "You and this champagne."

"Cheers," he said, and they downed their glasses together.

By the time they'd finished the Dom Perignon, and the Rheinriesling, and had started on the port, Tracy had stopped asking Ned what time it was. It was not time to leave, and it wasn't time to sleep, and it certainly wasn't time to eat, although she was getting really hungry. No, it was time to ask her oldest boy about his love life, because that's what mothers did. Tracy looked through her blurry eyes at her son, who had taken off his jacket and was stretched out on the floor staring at the ceiling.

"Who's the girl?" she said, her words slurring slightly around her tongue.

"Huh?" He continued to stare upwards.

Tracy eased herself off the crate and onto the floor, lying on her back next to him and staring at the exact spot on the ceiling. "The Secret Someone whose disappointment in you has gotten you so glum."

"You'd never believe me."

"Oh, come on. I'm very open-minded."

"Ha!" But he was at least talking now, instead of just drinking and sulking, something he did far too much of for Tracy's taste. "You have never approved of any of my girlfriends."

"Well, if you'd ever date anyone of substance," she said.

At that, Ned had to snort. "Oh, this from the veteran of five disastrous marriages and twice as many ill-fated affairs. You are really not the person to advise me on my love life, Mother."

"I'm not _that_ bad, Edward," Tracy muttered. "I've had some good relationships."

"Ha! You're a walking romantic disaster. Shall we discuss Noel MacIntosh?"

Tracy put her hands over her eyes. "You will _never_ let that go, will you? It was ten thousand years ago--"

"You _slept with my frat brother_!"

"I didn't _know that_ at the time. I told you, he said he was thirty." Tracy groaned at the very memory of that disastrous visit to Ned's college.

Her son, on the other hand, laughed. "And you said you were twenty-nine."

She lifted a warning eyebrow. "I passed for twenty-nine back then."

"In a dark bar after a few cocktails," he said, reaching for the port and taking a sip right out of the bottle.

"Vicious," she snorted, taking the bottle from him and downing a full swallow herself. "What on earth did I ever do to deserve such venom?"

"How about destroying every relatioship I ever had, every marriage, every--"

"Oh, please, it's a Quartermaine tradition. I destroy your life, Daddy destroyed mine, you'll destroy your daughter's life, too. I'm sure if you go far enough back, there were Quartermaines destroying their children's precious little psyches during the French Revolution or the fall of Ancient Rome."

He had to chuckle, because, basically, he agreed with her. Dysfunction was the ultimate Quartermaine family tradition. "Come on, Mother, you have to admit not _all_ the women I dated were awful."

"Faith Rosco."

"Next, please."

Tracy shook her head, taking another sip of the port and handing it to her son. "Face it, Ned, you've been the unfortunate inheritor of my romantic genetic code. You have the same rotten luck I do when it comes to the opposite sex."

"Not true!"

"Oh, come on, Ned. Lois Cerullo?"

"Is the mother of my child, and you'd better think before the next words come out of your mouth," he warned.

"Is a wonderful girl, I'm sure," she countered quickly. "But not really tough enough for the Quartermaine family. Now that litle Cassadine girl was strong, but still a Cassadine."

"Um, not really, Mother."

"Still, she's the only Cassadine I've ever been able to tolerate—"

"You were in cahoots with Helena no less than two years ago!"

"For which she kindly repaid me by threatening my life at gunpoint." Tracy harrumphed, stretching her arms backwards to pillow them under her head. "Of course, it must _gall_ her than anyone with Cassadine blood has to _work_ for a living—"

"She's the District Attorney," Ned inserted, not really trying to stop her now that Tracy was on a roll.

"A civil servant at that," she chuckled. "Oh, if only she had been sane, she would have been perfect for you."

"I'm sure her husband and children would have a different opinion, Mother."

Tracy shook her head, rolling over on to her side to look at him. "That's your problem, Ned. You always see the negatives, never the opportunities."

"Lay off, Mother," he said, rolling over onto his side to face her as well. It was cold on the floor, but the wine was pretty much warming them both now. "It's Brooke Lynn."

"What's Brooke Lynn?" Tracy stretched, cracking her neck as she rolled her head side to side.

"Brooke Lynn, my daughter, your granddaughter, remember?"

Tracy rolled her eyes. "I know who Brooke Lynne is, Ned. I just don't know what she has to do with Mikos Cassadine's bastard civil servant daughter!"

"Nothing! I mean, Alexis is not—" Ned drew in a hard breath and physically counted to ten before continuing. "My date tonight. It was with Brooke Lynn." He pushed up on his hands until he was sitting, wobbly, with his legs crossed beneath him. "The woman I stood up was my daughter." He sounded miserable.

"You got a bottle of Rheinriesling for your fifteen year old daughter?"

"Seventeen, Mother, and it wasn't for her. Ever since the divorce, the Cerullos have been a little...uncomfortable around me. Buttering them up with booze usually helps."

Tracy lifted herself up to sit as well, a little dizzy but basically okay. "Well, then, I would strongly recommend _not_ going the slinky negligee and romantic rendezvous route to get back into Brooke Lynn's good graces," she said firmly.

"Thank you for that sage advise, Mother," he laughed.

"Oh, come on, you can make it up to her. Take her to a nice restaurant in Manhattan, or maybe to one of those god-awful rock concerts you two like to bond over. She'll forgive you."

"Not for this one." He lowered his head slightly, looking up at her through slitted eyes. "This is one of those things that...well, you don't want to stand your kid up for."

"What sort of thing would that be?" She leaned forward, resting her chin on her fist, fascinated.

"The kind of once in a lifetime thing that seems silly to adults, but means a heck of a lot to a kid."

"Oh, the kind of things I missed throughout yours and Dillon's entire childhoods?" she murmured.

"This wasn't an accusation, Tracy," he sighed, really not wanting to get into it with her.

"Oh, it's Tracy again." She blew out a hard breath of air, stretching her arms in front of her in a single, fluid motion. "Here it comes. My mother didn't love me, I was neglected as a child, and I'll never be an enlightened being because of it. Boo-freaking-hoo." She turned away from him, not meeting his eyes. "How it always comes back to what a crappy mother I was, I don't know, but can we just turn off the broken record?"

"I didn't say a damn thing about you or the crappy mother you were to me. Not Dillon, of course, but to me."

"What does this have to do with Dillon?"

"Nothing, Tracy. Nothing at all to do with Dillon. It's not his fault that by the time he was born, you were suddenly ready to be a parent, and I was already too old to matter."

Tracy's jaw actually dropped, and she stared at him wide-eyed. "You are kidding me? Do not tell me that there is a shred of sibling rivalry in your body..."

"Whatever. All I know is, when I was wasting my time in a smelly boarding school, I used to tell myself that I'd never be the kind of parent you and Larry were. I'd care about my kid, I'd take part in their life. My kid would mean more to me than a ten minute cup of tea with cookies while you were en route from London to Paris, or Zurich, or whereever it was that was more important to you than the person you brought into the world. And I told myself that I'd be a better father than Larry was, and a better person you were." He paused, brushing his right hand through his hair. "And I failed, Mother. I'm just as crappy a father to Brooke Lynne as Larry was to me, and I'm just as self-centered and absent from my child's life as you were from mine." He sighed, letting out a low groan as he did. "Just like she'll probably be from her kid's life." Ned lowered his head into his hands. "I begged her, Mother. She was embarrassed to tell me about this stupid senior talent show at her school, because she thought I would laugh at her. I begged her to tell me, and swore I'd be there. I swore, Mom. I swore."

Tracy pulled her son into her arms, rocking him gently as he cried. "It's okay, Ned. You're not a bad father. You're a good father. You love your kid, just like your father and I loved you. None of us are perfect, but you try. You do the best you can, and she'll understand that someday."

"Like I understand?" His voice wasn't accusing, just honest. "Like I still don't look at Dillon sometimes and want to wring his neck, because he got you in his life. Because you cared more about him than you ever did about me. Because he was your miracle, your second chance, and I was just -- the other son."

"Ned, no. No, no, no, no, no," she murmured into his hair, kissing him tenderly to emphasize each word. "I was a baby when I had you. I was spoiled and stupid and terrified and all-too-willing to let other people carry my responsibilities for me. You'll never know how much I regret what I lost with you. You'll never know how much I regret not being there for you, not knowing you, not watching you grow into the man I love so much now. You'll never know," she whispered, holding him tightly.

"I do know, Mother. I feel the same way about Brooke. One day, she was just a baby, and the next day, she and Dillon are running away and scaring the living daylights out of me."

Tracy began to laugh, and Ned pulled out of her embrace to give her an inquisitive look. "I was just thinkig of the Chatham School, and Headmaster Rodman."

"Oh, my god," Ned said, and started to laugh as well. "I hadn't thought of that in years. Now, _that_ was a time you actually came through for me. In a huge way."

"Idiot man, suspending my son for such an assanine reason."

"I'll never forget the day Hurricane Tracy swept in to that school and rescued me, leaving nothing behind but floor-scraping jaws and utter destruction." He smiled at her, and she mussed his hair. "You rented a car, and we drove back to Austria together. You were staying just outside of Salzburg, remember?"

"I remember."

"Can I tell you something, Mother?" he said, fiddling with the laces on his shoes. "I remember during that drive, I kept falling asleep. Well, somewhere in the French countryside, it had to be about midnight or so, I woke up. You'd turned on the radio, and they were playing that old song--A Nightengale Sang in Berkeley Square. You thought I was asleep, and you were singing along with the radio. Nothing embarrassing," he added quickly at her grimace and groan. "Just sweet, soft and pretty. Like you were singing to yourself, to keep yourself awake. I remember watching you as we drove, and thinking, this is what it must be like to have a mother."

"Oh, god," she whispered as his words cut through her. "Ned, I'm..."

"No, I'm sorry. I should know, of all people, how hard it is. How time gets away from you. That angry bitter routine might have worked when I was nineteen, but I'm a man now, Mother. And it's time to stop blaming you for every bad thing that's ever happened to me. You weren't perfect, but you were doing the best you could."

"So are you, darling," she whispered. "And someday, your daughter will understand how much you adore her, just as maybe you'll understand that I adore you. You were _never_ the other one. You were never less than Dillon in my heart. You just had...bad timing."

"Yeah," he said ruefully, reaching for the bottle.

Tracy stopped him, pulling the bottle out of his hans and setting it up on the crate behind him. "What time is it?"

"About 7 o'clock."

"And what time is Brooke Lynn's little talent show?"

"It starts at eight. Why?"

Tracy was on her feet, mostly steady, and reaching for her purse. "Because we're getting out of here. Come on, we've got a show to catch."

"What are you talking about?" He followed her as she ascended the stairs, purse in hand. When she got to the top, she reached in and pulled out a small, worn leather case. "What is that?"

"A gift. From Marco Dane. Don't ask," she added quickly. Opening the case, she revealed a set of shiny metal tools, small and designed for precision work. "Now, we just have to figure out how this lock is designed, add a little muscle and lots of finesse, and we're out of here."

"You have a lock-picking set? Why on Earth would you have a lock-picking set?" He stared in amazement as she leaned over and began working the lock. "And why did it take you this long to decide to pick the lock?"

Tracy shrugged. "Being locked in a cellar was a good enough excuse to miss a boring dinner engagement. Besides, it was a great excuse to spend time with my son."

"And you didn't care if you ruined my evening?"

"Hey, I didn't lock you in. And when I thought it was just a date with some bimbo, I didn't really think it mattered." She had one of the tools between her lips and was easing a long, metallic pick between the door and frame. "But this is for your kid. That matters."

Ned let that sink in. She said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Your kid matters. As he watched her expertly working the lock, another thought occurred to hm. "If you know how to pick a lock, why did it take you so long to get loose when Monica and Dillon handcuffed you and Robert Scorpio together?"

"Door locks, handcuffs. Totally different things. Now stop distracting me...damn, this thing is jammed. I don't have the strength. Ned, I need your muscle." She pulled back, handing him the pick and showing him precisely where to work. "Don't push too hard, or you'll break it. Use pressure, not force. Come on...yes! That's wonderful, baby!" She leaned on him, her arm wrapped around his waist as he managed to work the lock free and the door swung open. "Bravo!"

"We're out of here!" Ned turned around and gathered her into his arms, actually lifting her off the floor as he swung her around. "You're amazing!"

"Of course I am. What a silly thing to say." She was already heading into the hallway, calling for Alice. "Do you have the number for the venue?"

"Yeah."

"Call ahead. Tell them you're a talent scout for L&B Records, and you want all the singers moved to the end of the show." She had already pulled out her cell phone and was dialing frantically. "Where is she? ALICE!" They were just reaching the foyer when Alice appeared.

"You bellowed, Miss Tracy?"

"Fix something for us to eat. Fast, and we have to be able to take it with us." To Ned, she clarified. "We can't go there wasted. Something heavy, Alice. Lots of carbs, to soak up the alcohol. Yes?" This last was said into the phone. "What took you so long to answer? No, never mind. This is Tracy Quartemaine. I need the ELQ jet prepped and ready to go for an immediate flight to New York. Brooklyn Corporate Airport. Have a driver waiting for us when we arrive. Yes, just me and Mr. Ashton. And, pilot? There's a ten thousand dollar bonus in it for you if you get us there before 8:30. Yes. Yes, we'll be there in a few minutes."

"Mother? You're going, too?" Ned was just staring at her in amazement. There she was again, Hurricane Tracy, saving the day. For a moment, he forgot he was a grown man. He forgot he had a daughter of his own. For a moment, he was Ned again, and his mother was sweeping in, bigger than life, drawing him into that secret and glamorous life of hers, if only for a moment. "You're going to Brooke's concert?"

She smiled, flipping her phone shut with a definite relish. "I've missed enough moments in your life, Ned. I'm not going to miss this one...your daughter's senior talent show."

"Thank you," he said. "For everything."

But heartwarming and sentimental were not Quartermaine traits, and the moment was gone quickly as she chucked his chin, grinned, and bellowed for Alice to hurry up with the food.

**Epilogue**

Brooke Lynne paced nervously behind the curtain, waiting for Anjelica to finish her number. She was good, really good, and Brooke cursed the stupid director for changing the line-up. She didn't want to follow little Miss Latino Dynamite. But some bigwig had called and demanded the singers be put last, and for some reason, Ms. Delagarde had buckled. Her mom swore it was some kid's father pretending to be a record exec, but that just made Brooke more nauseous. She knew she shouldn't have told her father about this thing. He was probably at some business dinner right now, some ELQ thing he couldn't have gotten out of, maybe sparing a thought or two for the "other engagement" he'd had to break to be there.

She wished she'd never told him. And when the applause for Anjelica's number rattled the roof, she only felt sicker. Stage fright, her mom said. Nothing but stage fright, and she knew how to handle that.

Anjelica ran off the stage, looking like a million bucks in her J-Lo make-up and attitude. Brooke felt stupid and emo and just plain wrong. But Ms. Delasande was already pushing her toward the microphone. Stupid hand-held thing, not the head-sets like she was used to. But it was enough to get her going, and she centered herself as she always did. She was a professional. This was a gig, albeit a stupid kiddy talent show gig. And no matter what happened when that curtain opened, she was going to face this gig like a professional.

"Ladies and gentleman, our next performer has a list of professional credits taller than she is. Please give a big round of applause to Miss Brooke Ashton!"

There is was, the curtain opening, the introductory bars of music over the loudspeakers, the adrenaline pumping through her body. Brooke scanned the audience, as she always did, to find her mother, her rock, her center point. She was there, in the same spot she always chose, so Brooke would always be able to find her. Seated next to her were her grandparents, the Cerullos, looking thrilled and excited as they always did.

And next to them, to her utter shock and amazement, were not only her father, looking proud as if he had sense, but Tracy Quartermaine herself. She blinked hard, and almost missed her cue from the shock of seeing her grandmother in a school gym, diamonds glaring in the light and looking for all the world as if she were actually enjoying herself.

When the cue came, Brooke Lynn opened her voice and sang as she'd never sung before. And it was absolutely wonderful.

The End


End file.
